


Baby Butterfly Breath

by homo_pink



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Happy Ending, Inspired by a Movie, M/M, inspired by a book, light pregnancy kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 10:05:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4517724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homo_pink/pseuds/homo_pink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Everybody at our school was in love with Jared. Everybody except for Jensen.</i>
</p>
<p>(Virgin Suicides AU - Lux!Jensen and Trip!Jared)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby Butterfly Breath

**Author's Note:**

> Not very structured. Very indulgently written.

Like lilac blossoms in a milk bath, he drifted and lazed and decorated the imaginations of the awed adolescent. The neighborhood kids were in unanimous agreement, signed with blood and spit on it twice; Jensen Ross – second youngest of the Ackles clan – was everybody’s dreamboy. 

 

~

 

There were five of them at one point; Junie, Jeena, Jaq. Jade, the baby at thirteen, and Jensen, who never pinched his cheeks for gentle color yet wore matching candy apples with the rest of them. 

Jensen, who smelled of Love’s Baby Soft when he was out of deodorant and could often be found slipping into a pair of beat up pink all-stars on the way out the crucifixed front door in a rush to get to school, the sweet shop, the next chapter of a life far too small to hold the enormity of him in forever.

Jensen, even before baby Jade had boozed on toilet-cleaner and gone away so suddenly, was tragically handsome. Pretty in a way that was almost excessive, startling, too many focal points on his face at once – and despairing in that when he shut his eyes at night, even the moon mourned.

His attention was something of a bejeweled brooch and held tightly to his paling center, he gave glimpse of it to a grand total of no one. 

For a while.

 

~

 

"If you're planning on sitting there, please don't distract me during lessons," was the first thing Jared's darling dear ever said to him, before Jared had even plopped into the seat behind him, the second week of the new school year. Jared's third try at being a freshman.

"I–" _hardly plan on showing up._

"Popping knuckles counts." And darling dear didn't bother turning around, not in the beginning, and not in the end.

"I won't," Jared said, and sat down carelessly cool.

 

~

 

Ten minutes later and Jared learned that it was entirely possible to fall idiotically in love with a freckle in the plump middle of somebody’s lower lip.

 

~

 

That first moment was something precious for him: Geometry, 5th period, and the yardstick wielder up front had harped on Jared's lack of supplies along with the aviators he had better remove at once, young man.

Darling dear turned to hand him the worksheet being passed out, took in Jared's toked up flushy face, his open collar from getting the sweats, and said, “here, keep it,” as he lay a plain no.2 pencil with a nubby eraser right on Jared’s desk, loved through the previous year perhaps.

Their fingers never touched that afternoon, but just a glimpse of the sweetest thing and it felt to Jared’s shocky system like slipping his dick into the mesh opening of an electric fence. Excruciating.

And nobody loved pain more than Jared.

 

~

 

The boy was a devil's dream and the world around them knew it. 

Perched high on his roof most nights, creeping on dawn with rock 'n roll in his ears and a menthol between his fingers, he triggered the spike in binocular sales in that little town the year he was fourteen. 

Bare feet and summer insects; wounded, alive, everywhere at once. 

Dewy thighs and a nighttime hunger, he was somebody's unfinished poem. He was gumball machine tattoos in secret places and crop-tops after bedtime, and a kid whose mother was friendly with Mrs. Ackles once relayed the information that Jensen Ross smelled like the cherry almond hand soap from the six lane bowling alley.

As potent as he wasn't pure, the loudest tenor in the church choir and tarty winks to the milkman all on the same day, everybody, of course, wondered if he was a screamer. Nobody, of course, ever dared try to find out. 

No, Jensen Ross was the rough draft of a five-page love letter, front and back, and he had a sugar soul deep within him that only a matching fiend would ever think to get close enough to lick.

 

~

 

For fifty-five minutes five days a week, Jared daydreamed with gusto. About ears that stuck out just a little, and the exact karat of gold a certain strand of hair was, and about wrists lined with jelly bands and snappy beaded things.

They learned about congruent angles and the Pythagorean theorem, and Jared mapped out lots of shapes on his paper that all more or less took on the exact slope of Jensen Ross’s fawn-spotted nose.

 

~

 

People studied them wherever they went, that cluster of sunflowers locked in shade, three girls and a boy. Wondered over their mysterious misery, tried to imagine being confined to a school, a church, a four-bedroom two-story. 

 

~

 

“There’s an after school review on Thursday,” darling had said to Jared once, offhand, all Colgate teeth and vacant green stare. “Make sure you brush up on your rigid motions,” and he may as well have whispered it in the fogged backseat of Jared’s cherry Ford Pinto, the effect was the same.

Jared was well acquainted with cheat sheets and slipped answers, with having his homework done for him in swirly, bubbly, feminine looking longhand. 

What Jared Padalecki wasn’t used to was flippance and brisk words and eyes that only touched him when they had to, like a chore. 

Jensen Ross didn’t sneak Jared his neatly-penned notes, and his looks didn’t linger, and Jensen was growing notorious for gracing Jared with nothing more than his turned back. Unfortunately, it was a really good back.

"I'll be there," Jared choked to the nobody that was listening, heart-swollen.

 

~

 

“Forget that one, just forget it,” his crew tried to say. “Never happening.”

Mr. Ackles was a preacher, stained glass windows and both hands uplifted, but it was Mrs. Ackles that instructed how and when to pray. The warden of the home, the guys said, and Jared, tormented by the idea of Jensen imprisoned in a birdcage, hungered to be the one to scale the barbwire gates.

“You can have anyone, dummy. Probably even some of the teachers. Find someone else.”

But Jared, continuing to watch in a stupor as darling dear crossed the courtyard, ghosted on all sides by his lovely yellow-haired sisters, a flock of angelwings besieging a cherub, said feelingly, “there’s nobody else."

 

~

 

There were many – embarrassingly many – attempts at presenting himself in a way that tipped its hat at wooing but snubbed its nose at stalking, and in varied locations, too.

In the cluttered cafeteria, Jared watched the unearthly Jensen Ross push cold spaghetti around on his tray with little ballet twirls of his fork, laughing at something one of the Ackles girls said, the sound of his elation sophisticated. Jared shrank back into the hormonal wildlife, feeling too much like prey.

Next to the stair railing opposite dearest’s homeroom, Jared waited. Ignored boys and girls cooing his name, slapping his arm, like doves, like whips, and watched helplessly as the only one for him walked up close to him, then right by him, then passed him altogether.

By the Coca-Cola machine, Jared actually birdpeeped a single word. 

He reached out, nearly touched Jensen Ross’s pointy elbow, really almost touched it – not the way Ron Marchetti claimed to have felt up his left buttcheek during PE – but when Jensen turned at the sound of his croaked name, looked down at Jared’s branch-like fingers hung in the swampy hallway air between them, Jared ceased to exist.

 

~

 

A list went around, folded and refolded, patchy ink blotches and thumb prints, highlighter art around the edges, and it was something of a tradition. Every kid knew what it was, waited anxiously for their turn at inspection.

**Most Beautiful Girls** it said at the top, a top 20 ranking of the entire school.

No last names were given, and none were needed. Some were infamous, some were self-explanatory. And some had asterisks next to their names – code for which ones put out.

Tanya was on it, the girl who wore her sweaters two sizes too small. Pam from the yearbook committee, a couple of the mascara addicts, too. And somewhere along the way, someone crisscrossed over beautiful and scrawled in something lewd. The word ‘girls’ had also been partially erased, too many reverential hands, teenager sweat.

By the time the floppy, fist-wrinkled thing ended up in Jared’s lap, it read:

**Most Fuckworthy**  
And above the #1 slot, as though too extreme to categorize, _J.A._ , with a little red heart on the left. And a star on the right. 

Nobody need wonder which J of the A's it meant.

 

~

 

In a packed gymnasium under a gentle darkness, and a youth advocate on stage citing the perils of wrong paths and gateway reefer, Jared made his quintessential move.

 

~

 

Mercifully alone, Jensen Ross was at the very edge of the room, far corner, back to the wall, precious little ass on the ground, balancing an open notebook on his spread knees, studiously jotting into it the growing list of endangered species, or an assignment, or maybe something else, something privately sinister. 

On unsteady legs hidden in fine corduroy, Jared sank down in the open space next to him, all weird and terrible and nothing like he’d rehearsed in his head. Jared, to be suitably fair, had a rather humiliating disadvantage that the other boys didn’t share – he was born beautiful. _JCPenney catalog beautiful._ He’d never had to try for anything.

Never once had Jared given chase, or edgily waited on someone’s stoop wearing a bowtie and a zit on his chin, or picked petunias off a lawn as a last minute gift. 

He hadn't known the back of a pretty girl’s head, save from when he put her that way himself. He knew nothing of crush-suffering: staring out screened windows in a state of lovelorn catatonia, the word no from a lipsticked mouth, the feel of all his busy arteries pulling (grasping) and pushing (shoving) at once.

At least, not until JA.

Sick with love, or some estranged cousin of it, Jared couldn’t wait anymore. 

When Jensen Ross shut his book of secrets, thrust his cat-eye glasses up his math-class nose, shifted his spine a little straighter, Jared slipped in even closer. 

The mothy polyester of their school-shirts pressed together at the shoulder, virgin light, almost insignificantly, until the last possible second when Jared felt Jensen Ross push _back_. Pressed sinless parts of their bodies together—

—and even the thrill of getting his dick sucked felt less perverse, less real, than that shy sweep of elbow.

Just before the hall lights came back on and Jared got up to go lest he die right there on the spot from overtaxed nerves, he plucked all his courage up like blooming florals and handed it over to Jensen Ross when he bent over and said in Jensen's bunny-pink ear, honest as the winds, “I feel fucking naked just looking at you.”

Jensen Ross's true laugh, a boy-soft giggle that caused his shoulders to swoop and his chin to duck, played in a loop in Jared's head for three days.

 

~

 

On the fourth day, he made move #2.

 

~

 

Jared tried to think of a gesture grand enough to cinch his place in his darling’s life. Something worthy of a diary entry, of muffled whispers between the sisters. Of causing Jensen Ross to lose the kind of sleep others sacrificed to him nightly, soulfully, smothered into their pillows while dampening sheets their mothers would have to wash in the morning.

He thought of decorating Jensen’s locker with leftover Valentine’s Day stickers somebody’s little sister was bound to have, writing his own messages in the hearts – _XOXO 69 - I HEART YOUR MOUTH - MARRY ME IN 5 YRS_ – but that seemed too childish.

He debated getting a tattoo, some flashy thing encircling his bicep in tribute to the one who stole parts of him and left the heart of a wild beast in place, but that felt too obsessive.

He even toyed with the idea of leaving his treasured puka shell necklace in the desk darling sat at, but it made him nauseated to think of Mr. Pete, the after hours janitor, finding it instead and tossing it. 

Besides, Jensen Ross had his own neck décor – some rose gold heart-locket that swung from a dainty chain, a little thing that hypnotized Jared only marginally less than the idea of putting his mouth on the skin it sat against day after day.

 

~

 

In the end he chose to simply park his car in front of 772 Wildrose Dr., check his hair in the rearview mirror, spray some peppermint onto his tongue, and walk right up those crooked cobblestone steps and push the same finger he’d later push into Jensen Ackles right against the glowing orange doorbell.

That night Jared Padalecki became the first boy to step foot into the curling web of old funk that was the Ackles’ home. Every kid in that neighborhood had seen it all go down, watching from attic windows and tire swings gone still, a twinned combo of respect and resentment.

 

~

 

Later, Jared would recall only snapshots.

On the wicker table – a collection of junk; homemade candles, sweating cups off their mismatched coasters, a jug of tea from which one of the girls – nobody could ever be sure which was which, they all seemed as one, a soft, buttery entity with dolly eyes and centipede hands – kept offering to pour him a refill.

On the tube – a nature program about amphibians that routinely ate their young.

On the recliner – Mr. Ackles, startling himself awake every two minutes with the sound of his hog snortling.

On the paisley couch two cushions down, on the other side of the warden-mother – Jensen Ross, knitting tranquilly, eyes on his needle, unknowing of Jared’s very existence being pierced straight through and out the other side.

Jared sat amidst that airy, other-dimensional family of six and never once let on how his cock stuck to his lucky black briefs in that cusp-of-orgasm way from hardly anything more than being alive at the same time, in the same shrinking space, as the unsolvable geometric equation that hardly acknowledged his being there at all.

 

~

 

Jensen, that night, had been chewing peach taffies while he tangled his yarn. When he walked Jared to the door after ninety minutes of nothingness, his breath blew syrupy fruit when he said, kind of prudish, kind of defeated, “Well, bye.”

He shut the door with woeful Jesus on his woeful cross on Jared’s woeful spirit, utterly crushed, and left Jared’s smile to dither and die on the eternally long, thirty-five foot walk to his wheels, and that was that, was it, was all.

 

~

 

In the calm of his car, Jared thought only of carnage. The disgraceful way his hands refused to turn the ignition, the reckless way his feet ached to cart his bones back into that stale house and up the stairs to a fantasy free-for-all.

He’d been so sickeningly close.

He watched as various lamps fizzed out for the night room by room like little lightning bugs perishing, and when the last one charred black, he sat and stared at indistinct outlines of the figurines cluttering the windowsill of that room, ceramic dalmations, porcelain praying children.

Jared closed his burning eyes and felt strangely one with those weeping mini-statues.

It was then, with his thumb toying at the ashtray on the driver’s door and his lip doing some outrageous wobbling thing, that he was overtaken soundly and devastatingly and with zero remorse for his already fragile flesh.

The thing that slid in through the passenger side and dropped onto his lap was no boy at all. It was a being, soft-bellied and beautiful, with clumps of wet grass stuck to the soles of its feet and a devouring mouth that raged against Jared’s tear-bitter lips, whetting its loveteeth.

"Mm," said the starved monster in a long flannel overshirt, curling closer to gorge on its trembling feast. 

The leather of the seat squeaked in suffocation and the horn nearly blasted into the night more than once, and Jared slid his suddenly amateur hand up a thorny thigh, unshaven. He even managed to squirm a couple of fingers past the flimsy material of overwashed underwear and rub against something damp and warm and waiting.

Into the mouth of the creature, Jared slid his tongue. Into the body, he slid knobby knuckles. And into his very own chest, it slid its destroying blade. Poison-tipped, it reached his core and Jared belonged to him, then.

In a lifetime of four minutes, Jared touched ribs, kissed a cheek, and fingerfucked his sweet one into a sweaty pink mess in his arms.

At 9:12pm, Jensen Ross pulled away, said, "You were really good," and then he was gone, running blind, scaling the side of his house and up to his room, Jared panting and dopey, smiling painfully around a split lip and the mangled peach taffy left behind under his tongue.

 

~

 

They didn’t run in the same circles, of course. Jared with his student body fanclub, and Jensen Ross with his red-striped tube socks and elsewhere gaze.

But the next day, when Jared showed up with a mauled mouth and Jensen Ross wore a stubble-burned pucker that no amount of concealer could mask, it was all anyone spoke of.

How sweet did that slight body feel against his palms, the basketball team wanted to know. Did Jensen Ross moan like the street women, mucky between his legs? Did he speak only in movie quotes? Did the inside of his mouth taste like the salted love of countless others? 

Jared almost got written up that period, but the coach had a soft spot for him and nobody wanted to be on the tallest guy in school’s bad side, sorry man, so fucking sorry.

"So does that mean Jared's like, taken? For Sadie Hawkins?" one of the Courtneys asked. "I already had my dress picked out to match his eyes."

 

~

 

On a Saturday afternoon, once, when the sun was unscrubbable on the skin and someone’s stuffed rabbit was floating down a muddy stream nearby, Jensen Ross walked into the old Sip & Save and went shopping with no money. Mr. Sal, the owner, saw it. But he didn't say a word. 

He even gave the boy a whip of cinnamon licorice for free. All Jensen Ross had to do was let his eyelashes dance.

That was the legend, anyway. 

Somebody's aunt saw it all go down, outraged over her bifocals, nostrils flaring dragonly, and then it spread to three other aunts, then thirty, and by sundown the entire town was sure of one thing: Jensen Ross, aged thirteen and 3/4, with little honey galaxies dotted on his nose, was a harlot. And a kleptomaniac.

Now Jared wasn’t sure if all that, or even any of it, was true. But what he did know was that if Jensen Ross touched him, or even looked at him from the right eye-twinkling angle, that he no longer felt a pulse within him. So the boy was _some_ sort of thief, at least. 

 

~

 

“We’re not— _going together_ ,” Jared said around a joint, to his friends. “It’s not—” It wasn’t. It really wasn’t like that. Nobody was wearing anybody’s letterman, or copping a feel in the supply cubby, or. “He’s just. Cool.”

Cool. Cool like a gas pedal under the arch of your foot, going 90 in a 35. 

Besides, laying claim to a boy like Jensen Ross just wasn’t done. Even if Jensen were to allow it, nobody would believe it. Not even from a guy like Jared. Well, maybe from a guy like Jared. He’d worn a cruel, constantly fresh-looking ring of bruisey bites around his throat for more than two weeks. People were talking. He got that.

“Well, if his mom finds out,” one of the guys said, half a thought but fully formed, and Jared flicked the last of the roach to the pavement, heeled down on the cherry, said to everyone listening, not a – not a threat, but, “Nobody’s gonna find out shit, alright?”

And he’d meant it when he said it, sort of. At least when it came to the Ackles’. But it was still a lie the second it left his devil-forked tongue because he didn’t care who – he _wanted_ everyone to know. That Jensen was his. Just his. 

 

~

 

Sweeping aside the bead curtain his late mother installed in their home was one of Jared’s favorite mindless childhood memories. The colored crystals would go clinking and swooshing, sweeping his hair back behind his ears. The silence when it resettled was angel dust in his veins. Swimmy vision. 

It was a lot like parting Jensen Ross’s pearl-buttoned shirt for the very very first time.

They’d—done stuff, in the pussymobile, and on the football green in a shady patch one stolen lunch period, and it was. It was so good, god, and Jared had been to bed with others before, yeah, but it was nothing at all like, like this, when Jensen sucked at his jaw, said into Jared’s very bones, “I’m supposed to be cramming,” and let Jared squeeze between his naturally bent legs anyway, bent just for this.

“Okay, yeah, yeah, I—“ Jared said, fumbling with his own zipper. “What, um, what has infinite width and length and – and can be determined by three points?”

“Uhhh,” Jensen said, like he was thinking. He closed his eyes. 

Jared was living, breathing, and touching the walls inside his math hour daydreams.

"A plane?" Jensen asked, and licked Jared's hung open mouth just by feel.

“Yeah, that’s right. That’s good—a plane,” Jared said, shaky, moonlit eyes catching on the naked curves of Jensen’s sweet little chest and so-soft underbelly, his shirt crumpled somewhere near the rain gutters. They were up on the roof and Jared was closer to the stars. 

Jensen laughed; that same pretty, black milk laugh of his. 

"Should we, do you—"

Jensen pressed his lips together, eating his babyteeth. It was a very observant gesture. His eyes were huge and open, Jared's cheeks splashed with warm pink, jesus, get it together, and Jensen said, "You can fuck me if you want. Just, just pull out, okay? I don't like it when it's messy."

“Yeah,” Jared said, scraping his knees on the shingling, “of course,” and that was another lie, and a bold one, but not entirely his fault.

 

~

 

If Jensen had closed his grass-stain eyes again, and if he’d stopped gasping unforgivable things into Jared’s forgiving ear, things about Jared eating him out and knocking him up, and if Jared hadn't discovered his own name marker-scrawled into Jensen Ross's underwear when he peeled them down his knees, inside a rudimentary heart shape—

If Jensen hadn’t grabbed Jared’s unsteady hand and placed the palm on his tummy and said, “There you are.” 

If Jared hadn’t felt the small pushed-out swell of his own cock in there, and if Jensen Ross hadn’t gone back on his word and wrapped his ankles around Jared’s ass to hold him in place, maybe things would have gone differently.

“Hey, hey, your legs—I can’t, hey, can you. Oh my _god_ ,” Jared said, after he’d already done it, blanching bone-white. 

But Jensen Ross just swished his ass, pressed him in even closer, said it was good for them, they’d be closer now, and something wonderfully weird about a shotgun wedding.

Jared's cocky-casual laugh was more like a wheeze, stupid and panicked, and when he finally pulled out, when Jensen finally let him, the load that gushed out with him was loud and wet. Jensen held his gaze, like something already dead by the side of the road. A pulled-open stare unseeing. Then he smiled. And Jared was obsessed.

 

~

 

Jensen never said – and Jared wouldn’t have known had it not been for the boys on the block – but soon after the rooftop lovemaking, Mrs. Ackles made the whole family recite sermons in the backyard, in the blister of the sun. When that was done, she ordered Jensen Ross to set fire to his beloved records.

The reek and corrosion of melting KISS and Heart and Aerosmith filled the neighborhood with a quiet fog, a sad sort of murk that hung over the one house alone. A few kids claimed to have heard murderous wails coming from behind locked shutters, an outraged darling spiting his womb. Ron Marchetti said that was just a couple of foxes that lived in the sewers.

All Jared heard, though, was Jensen Ross saying, "it's okay, they're asleep, mom's narcoleptic," as he led Jared up the rotting staircase in the house and back up to the roof for another go. 

Jensen Ross had an adulterer's lips, and Jared had a below-the-belt yearning. Mindlessly, Jared went.

 

~

 

"I'm gonna flunk for sure," said Jared's pretty heart-bandit. It was dusk and they were sharing a black beauty between their tongues, little pill dissolving with every punchy kiss. It was Jensen Ross's turn to study at the library, a skinny slice of freedom in the pie chart of his life.

Jared met him between the stacks, pressed up against **True Crime 364.15 A – G** , and stuck his hand down Jensen Ross's denim cutoff shorts. He licked the after-come off Jensen's pale thigh, then smelled his fingers while he was driving home alone.

 

~

 

Once he had it in his head, there was no tugging it back out. 

His dad was little help.

“I’m running away,” Jared announced, leaning against the kitchen countertop. 

His father was watching the game on the tube. He asked, focused on the third inning, “Is it still called running away if you broadcast it first?” Chewing on the remote, his mustache brimmed the edge.

Jared had to think about it. Then he said, rephrasing, “I’m taking Jensen Ross with me. Do you think we’ll make it out of the state?”

 

~

 

It didn’t matter that he’d already been further, that Jared had already tasted the blushing bloom of his most tender places. He was compelled to ask Jensen each time. If only because Jared liked to feel the small fuzz on his own arms rise with every granted permission.

“Would it be alright if I kissed you?” asked Jared, unafraid, unshy – but something.

“Would it be alright if I kept a curl of your hair?” asked Jensen. "For my locket." And he went ahead and took a clump anyway, bit off a piece near the back of Jared’s neck. It didn’t hurt. 

Nothing about being in love with Jensen Ross hurt at all, square root dreamboy.

  
  
made by [@anyaesthetic](https://twitter.com/anyaesthetic) on twitter ♥ ♥ 


End file.
